When Charlie took over the kitchen my interest greatly increased and I’d get intoxicated on the wonderful aromas he created: the warm fragrance of apple strudel, the tart smell of apple cider, the mouth-watering scent of vanilla custard and the sweet smell of jewel red jellies cooling on marble. It was alchemy not cooking.
During my first lesson, Charlie held up a brown egg, still warm from our chickens. ‘Why does the cock crow, Sasha? He crows because he’s proud of his hens, for they produce the most miraculous of foodstuffs. Therefore in my kitchen, we do not beat eggs. We shall begin with . . .’ he paused for effect ‘. . . the French omelette.’
Gently Charlie broke several eggs into a ceramic bowl. While I had to crane my neck to see, Charlie was bent double over the bowl. Despite his leanness Charlie was as strong as a horse. I’d seen him hump sacks of potatoes, two at a time, up the cellar steps. When Charlie moved around the kitchen his starched apron crackled and his wooden clogs clattered on the tiles. ‘We handle the eggs with respect and stir them gently to break the yolks. Like so.’
Charlie cut off a chunk of butter and sizzled it in a heavy copper frypan.
‘Don’t be stingy with the butter, tilt the pan and add more where your omelette is forming, then add another generous dab before you fold the omelette over.’
Fresh herbs, black pepper, and so we went. That morning I made all the omelettes for the servants’ breakfast. Eventually Charlie said I had it right and I’d done well. The last omelette I ate and it was, even if I do say so myself, damned good. So good that Charlie decided we needed better butter to finesse our cooking. ‘Ahhhh, French butter is what we need, my friend. It’s rich, very tangy and it supports feather-light puff pastry. I’ve been dreaming of beurre d’isigny. And I want it here. At Appletorte.’
I thought he was losing his mind. ‘But Charlie, we live in bloody Tasmania.’
‘That doesn’t matter in the scheme of things. All that’s required is about eighty-two to eighty-six per cent butterfat in the milk and a top-notch butter churner.’ He had a mad glint in his eye. ‘We must find a way of getting Appletorte’s cows to graze nice and close to Wolff and Sons’ Creamery, to secure the right butterfat content. Even if we have to smuggle them over there in the middle of the fucking night. Sasha, we can do this!’
And just like that Charlie and I were in the butter business. If the time is right later I shall speak of our other enterprises such as our successful venture into making fleur de sel – premium French salt. A salt so piquant that French chefs never go anywhere without a small box of it secreted in their pocket.
Before lunch we took a tour of the kitchen garden. Charlie swooped on unsuspecting peas and prodded them. ‘Sasha, press your nail deep into the pod. If sap appears the peas are fresh.’
My imagination was on fire. I clearly envisioned the vegetables quivering and asking each other – do we have a hope in hell of passing Charlie’s test?
I immediately felt distressed on their behalf.
We stepped daintily across plot ridges. Charlie wiggled a bunch of spinach from the soil. ‘See the dense structure of the leaves? Now smell them. Yes, very good, that’s the way to do it. You must also give them a little rub, like this, and then sniff again. What do you think?’
I was consumed with nerves. ‘Ah, they smell very fresh. I think.’
‘You’re right, there’s only a slight delicate odour.’ He ripped out a cabbage and I thought I heard it squeal. ‘Now feel this cabbage. Examine it carefully. Is it in good condition?’
I usually avoided cabbage especially when it was languishing on my plate. Cook had been in the habit of murdering vegetables and I loathed the smell of soggy, overcooked cabbage. ‘It seems all right, Charlie . . . yes?’
Charlie poked the cabbage mercilessly. ‘Yes and no. You must look closer. See? It’s split and there’s a devious worm grubbing around inside.’
He also taught me how to inspect spinach for overgrowth and how to deduce if the beans had solid stems. And so went my first lesson.
That night I had a nightmare about our vegetables cringing when they heard the footsteps of Charlie. He’d accidentally cut himself and there was blood all over the kitchen. The tomatoes became hysterical and the carrots were in a frenzy. All the vegetables were asking themselves if they were up to scratch; will we be able to pass muster?
Children who have been deprived of parental approval have these kinds of concerns.
Cats’ tongue biscuits. We began my first patisserie experience with cats’ tongues. They are known as langues-de-chat to the French and plain old butter biscuits to we Tasmanians.
‘Ah, Sasha, the history of pastry making is a seething war between nationalities. When gastronomy was at its height during the Renaissance, the Italians refined the art of patisserie. And thanks to the Medicis of Florence, pâtissièrs rose to dazzling heights. Thus when . . .’
I was too busy to listen. Under Charlie’s eagle eye I was creaming butter and sugar for what seemed like hours. Finally he gave me the nod and I gently added my eggs. We do not beat eggs in this kitchen. Lemon, flour and vanilla found their way into the dough, which I then carefully shaped into three-inch cats’ tongues. The smell of freshly baked biscuits filled the kitchen and drifted out the open window. My taste buds were tingling and happy. Spring was giving way to summer. Flowers squeaked noisily to the surface, bees made nuisances of themselves and I knew I’d found my calling. I decided there and then that I was going to become a World Famous Pâtissière.
While I baked, boiled, steamed and sautéed my way under Charlie’s instruction, he told me tales of the great Parisian patisseries. Charlie had what Lily termed, ‘The gift of the gab; he’s kissed the Blarney Stone once too often.’
Charlie described treading the streets of Paris sampling tartes aux pommes and chocolat bouchons. He kept me in a state of perpetual culinary excitement. ‘One must not simply appeal to the mouth, Sasha. It is also important to appeal to the eyes and the nose, even the ears. Ah yes, the delicate rustling as you untie the ribbon on a tissue parcel of macarons, it’s music to the ears. Nestled inside are subtly coloured macarons tinged delicately with vanilla, chocolate, coffee or pistachio. And then the aroma assails your nostrils. It’s sublime.’
As we waited for our cherry tarts to cool on the windowsill, Charlie said, ‘Queen Marie’s pâtissièr, Monsieur Stohrer, established a stunning patisserie, in the rue Montorgueil. And inside . . .’
Charlie’s descriptions were sensational. In my mind’s eye, I envisaged row upon row of golden, glazed brioches, reflected and glowing in the gilded mirrors of Stohrer’s magnificent shop. I dreamily appropriated Stohrer’s decor for my future patisserie. The sheer abundance of it all. I could almost smell the pastries and see the nymphs in their diaphanous robes, dancing in the glass murals. It took my breath away. Frescoes of the heavens were painted on the ceiling and there were romping naked cupids and wide-hipped goddesses bearing platters of cakes. All this magnificence was reflected and accentuated by heavy gilt-edged mirrors.
Charlie gave me the key to my dreams and I promptly decided I would seduce Tasmania’s landed gentry with my culinary skills. Aristocrats would have been better but we only had a handful or two in Tasmania. So I decided that I’d bake for discriminating locals and the squattocracy instead. It all seemed so terribly easy. Such are the conceits of fourteen-year-old girls.
When I turned fifteen, Grandpa gave me three original Antonin Carême cookbooks that he’d ordered from a rare books dealer in London. The cookbooks had been rebound in premium embossed leather but when I opened them they exuded the musty smell of tradition and culinary excellence. It was a sly gift as Grandpa had been hearing complaints from my French tutor, Pierre Dumaurier, about my lack of application. But suddenly I was keen to master the French language so I could translate all the ingredients for Carême’s recipes.
Carême’s beautiful drawings of what he called his extraordinaires kept me awake at night. I yearned to discover h
ow he’d built such exotic edible sculptures. In one of Carême’s books, his illustration of a tiered buffet was so long it had to be folded out. I drooled over his edible architectural follies, raised pies, gateaux and desserts.
Delighted to find me obsessed with all things French, Pierre decided to forgive and forget. ‘You need to understand this, Sasha. Antonin Carême was only about ten years old when he was abandoned on the Parisian streets by his father. But he dragged himself up from the bloodied gutter of the French Revolution and reinvented himself as head chef to Talleyrand, the Bonapartes, the Rothschilds and Europe’s royals and aristocrats.’
I was hooked. The very fact that Carême had been abandoned meant that I too could lift myself up by my bootstraps and obliterate my mother’s indifference and my father’s low estimation of my potential. For the brilliant Carême had proved it really was possible to rise above inglorious beginnings and reinvent oneself. He too had once been a black sheep.
I firmly believe that the salty air of Wolfftown is unique and beneficial to one’s wellbeing, and when I was in Europe I thought about it constantly. Our town is perched on a cliff face so there’s often a heavy swell. Even within the security of the harbour boats are dashed about in the water. The wind whistles between the narrow alleys and streets and the hanging wooden shop signs creak and swing recklessly.
The township was rebuilt following the Great Fire of 1844. The grog tents, slums and shanties had burnt down and improvements were made. Emerl Wolff established a proper water supply and he had the embankments of the river rebuilt to stop the town flooding. In the past all debris had been washed downstream: livestock both dead and alive, building materials, pots, pans and rusty domestic hardware.
Grandpa said, ‘When I was a lad the old folk used to tell of the reappearance of corpses in times of flooding. Apparently there was a lazy grave digger, Bob Pinkerton, who took no pride in his work. He’d be half-cut before breakfast and often mixed up the bodies or lost track of who was planted where. Cadavers popped up everywhere when it flooded. One day a dead husband floated past the crowded marketplace and even his wife didn’t notice him going by. Citizens emptied their refuse into the river. There was an appalling stench and whole families were wiped out by rampant plagues.’
But by the time I was born Wolfftown had become a prosperous-looking township. The main buildings around the wharf were triple-storey, white and red sandstone structures. Grandpa’s biggest public house, the House of Blazes, dominated the upper end of the wharf. It had three-foot-deep foundations of sandstone. The House of Blazes had two bars and a tavern on the ground floor, and a restaurant and hotel accommodation on the upper floors.
Grandpa purchased the land next door to the House of Blazes and built a magnificent triple-storey theatre that wouldn’t have been out of place in London. He named it the Baudelaire Theatre. The Baudelaire was phenomenally popular and attracted companies of players from the mainland and Europe. Situated near the Baudelaire was the mansion where Grandpa lived and caroused with his coterie of lady friends, assorted theatre folk and intellectuals.
Wolfftown prided itself on its cultural cachet. The young men known as the Cads gathered at the Baudelaire Theatre to stir up trouble by hurling rotten apples and onions onstage. The Cads were the spoilt and dissolute offspring of wealthy landowners and they’d become part of the entertainment. They’d elected Roger Dasher as their leader because he was willing to go further than any other Cad in extremes of bad behaviour. He had no limits and no conscience. Sometimes the constabulary would be summoned to the Baudelaire and at other times the play would halt and the actors would fight the Cads.
Grandpa frequently threw his hat into the ring and fought alongside the actors. He’d yell at the Cads, ‘Stand back you snivelling, soft-bellied bags of pus. Brace yourselves, here I come.’
He’d dive headlong into the fight and yelps, screams and whimpers would follow. Brendan Kane’s evening would be made if he got to punch Roger Dasher on the snout. If Lil was there she’d immediately usher me out. I could tell she was amused but she’d pretend to be furious. ‘Frankly, Sasha, I just don’t know what sort of example he’s setting for you. A man of his age ought to have grown up by now.’
As the fight escalated, Wolfftown’s prostitutes went right on soliciting customers. Grandpa proudly told everyone, ‘There’s always something going on at the Baudelaire for every man and his mongrel.’
I loved going to see plays at the Baudelaire and if Lily was out of town Grandpa always ensured that his theatre manager seated me up in the Royal Box. It commanded the best view of both stage and the audience. I’d sit blissfully alone, regally cocooned in my burgundy velvet splendour, utterly distracted by all the whoring taking place in darkened stalls and alcoves.
One day Grandpa dropped by the vicarage and sweet talked Mrs Taylor into allowing Viola to accompany me to the Baudelaire Theatre. Initially there was some resistance but Grandpa persisted, laid on the charm and invited Viola’s mother along to Viola’s first outing. He made sure it was one of Shakespeare’s less raucous plays, plied Mrs Taylor with sherry at intermission and flirted with her in the shadows of the Royal Box. Grandpa reckoned that Shakespeare’s sexual innuendo would go right over Mrs Taylor’s pious head. And he was right. Viola and I had to smother our laughter and keep ourselves nice or the jig would have been up.
After that it was plain sailing and Mrs Taylor was heard around town saying, ‘You know, I misjudged Mr Brendan Kane. He’s such a charming gentleman and he knows so much about Shakespeare. Why, he talked quite authoritatively about William Shakespeare’s play The Tempest and how it owes so much to Christian ideals. Mr Kane directly attributes much of Shakespeare’s best work directly to the Bible. And to think I never knew that!’
To sweeten the deal and ensure that Viola would be allowed to attend on her own, Grandpa suggested that Viola and I could be chaperoned by the wardrobe mistress, Mrs Mary Desmond, who was a virtuous married woman with five children. What he failed to mention was that Mary had not seen hide nor hair of her alcoholic husband for a decade and all five children had different fathers. Furthermore, Mrs Desmond was presently embroiled in flaming affairs with two rival actors, which was causing no end of headaches for the theatre’s director.
No matter, Mrs Taylor had already decided that with Viola and I isolated from the rest of the audience in the Royal Box, there was absolutely no need to take the hardworking Mrs Desmond away from her sewing.
Viola told me, ‘My father hasn’t taken the bait though. He’s a bit more aware of what goes on at the Baudelaire. But it doesn’t matter because Mama wears the pants in our family. She reckons that trips to the Baudelaire are educational and quite suitable for young Christian girls. And our wowser vicar will just have to lump it.’
After that Viola and I regularly sat up in the Royal Box together, dividing our attention between the stage and the patrons seated below. We learnt a lot as Wolfftown’s prostitutes were not above discreetly earning their keep during Hamlet’s soliloquy. No doubt it was the same in Shakespeare’s day. Now whenever I hear a Shakespearian actor proclaim the noble words,
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune . . .
I’m reduced to laughter.
While other theatre patrons grimly contemplate their mortality, I’m in paroxysms of hilarity. I make no slur on Shakespeare’s greatness but his words immediately conjure up the memory of Wolfftown’s harlots labouring to make the sap rise for their lustful clientele.
Brendan Kane had a monumental passion for Shakespeare. He’d memorised the most popular Shakespearian dramas and drove his favourite actors crazy by reciting the lines along with them as he sat in the front row. If any player forgot their piece he’d prompt them until they were safely back on track. He was very keen on King Lear and accordingly named his best breeding stallion Edmund and his most aggressive hunting hou
nds Goneril and Regan.
I found Grandpa in our study at Appletorte one evening. He was sitting still in the gloom holding a miniature painting of my mother, cradling it in his huge palm as if it were a fragile egg. He seemed so sad that I sat down next to him on the sofa and rested my head against his waistcoat. I listened to the steady beat of his big heart. We didn’t talk and he stroked my hair as though I was one of his beloved hunting hounds.
Eventually he broke the silence. ‘Rose never understood her own uniqueness. She hated being the publican’s daughter and aspired to being a great lady. That’s why she eloped and married Torte against my express wishes.’
He glanced down at me. ‘Possum, this is just between you and me, Rose did kill Big Dick Beaumont. I feel it in my bones and all the evidence points that way. She tends to flare up at perfectly innocent remarks because she’s so insecure. Sasha, do you know what the real tragedy of King Lear is?’
‘No.’
‘The tragedy is that Lear is an old man but he’s still trying to find an answer to the eternal question: who is it that can tell me what I am?’
We sat together in companionable silence and watched the flames dying down in the fireplace. Grandpa finally stirred when Charlie banged the dinner gong, signalling that dinner was about to be served in the dining room.
9
THOSE DAMNED KANE WOMEN
While I was growing up, Tasmania was still thought of as one of the most violent societies in the world. Tasmania was no longer known as Van Diemen’s Land but the term ‘Vandemonians’ was still used by old folk, to cast aspersions on anybody they didn’t like by implying criminality. Bondage, brutality and guilt hung around like a bad smell.
Although transportation of convicts had ceased many years before, Mayor Horace Wolff and his cronies were still making noises about sixty per cent of adult males either being ex-convicts or having been bred from convict stock. This is a bit rich given that our venerable mayor is directly descended from Emerl and Marigold Wolff. After all, those two hustlers – who if they hadn’t got the hell out of England in time – would probably have been convicted for their nefarious political activities.
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 12
